


She#Doufn Him (Lily Street)

by Vaysh



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Bucky Barnes in Bucharest, M/M, Missing Scene, Not fully Captain America: Civil War compliant, Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Pre-Captain America: Civil War (Movie)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-30
Updated: 2018-09-30
Packaged: 2019-07-20 15:09:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,157
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16139819
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vaysh/pseuds/Vaysh
Summary: Four months after Project Insight died in the depth of the Potomac, Natasha found the Winter Soldier in Bucharest.





	She#Doufn Him (Lily Street)

She would tell you she'd drunk her body weight in alcohol. Which of course she hadn't. She might be slight but 57 inches of vodka, neat, was too much for one person to drink and live, even if that person was Natalia Alianovna Romanova. _Little water_ , she would say, with a Russian smile.

Only this evening, she'd returned from the suburbs of Bucharest where she had found him, finally, four months after Project Insight had crashed into the Potomac. He was good at disappearing without any trace. But nobody could hide for months and months. Not with a metal arm, not with his kind of skill set and history. It was an apartment building from the 1970s, cheap concrete, constructed quickly without any of the Eastern European charm. She had followed him back from the market, tracked him up all seven stories to his place. 

His door had a window panel, covered with newspaper to protect the inside against the bright stairwell light. Back in the 70s, the light had probably been burning 24 hours, seven days a week. Socialism had often worked that way: either there was too much light – or no light at all. Old newspapers had been a common method to dim the fluorescent, all-night glare. The paper at Barnes' door was brittle, yellowing at the edges, the print already archaic-looking. Judging by the rundown apartments beside the one Barnes was squatting, nobody had done any renovation here for years. After some snooping, Natasha discovered a back door leading to the roof, a perfect route of escape. She herself could not have found a better place to hide.

She had meant to keep the information to herself; there was nothing Steve could do. And she'd keep an eye on Barnes, on the off-chance that circumstances changed. But back at the hotel she thought about Clint bringing her in, and he didn't kill her. She thought about Steve saying, _I trust you now_. From the balcony she could see University Square and rising behind it, the massive Palace of the Parliament, illuminated in an orange-golden light. There were two bottles of vodka in the fridge, courtesy of the InterContinental hotel. Black Widows were forbidden alcohol, and as the night advanced, it became abundantly clear why. Four glasses of vodka later, Natasha sent the message to Steve at 4.23 am, on a secure line, provided by Stark. 

_I#doufn him. Bucharestji Noi. He doimg well fo himself don't bother to vcheck. Don pull on thread. Steve._

Steve would already be rushing to JFK and boarding the next available plane to Romania. To say 'don't' meant, 'I know you're gonna'. He was just like Clint that way. And who was she not to tell Steve Rogers where his Bucky was.

Natasha put the phone on flight mode and threw it on the nightstand. No more messages, no more questions. Let Rogers, let Stark deal with the Winter Soldier on their own.

***

Steve had not told Sam about Natasha's drunken message from Bucharest. It had sounded drunk but would Natasha really get sloshed on the trail of the Winter Soldier? It was an unlikely lead, one that Natasha herself would probably discredit in the morning. But Steve was on the way to Bucharest two hours after the message had come in. He checked the Bucharest subway while on the plane, and googled what currency was used in Romania. Not euros but lei. From the Internet he also got the name of the man Bucharest airport was named for: Henry Coandǎ, the inventor of the jet plane, born long before Steve and dead for 42 years. Howard, Steve thought, would have liked the man. He left the airplane with people in business suits and young tourists from Canada. It was summer, middle of August. The clouds over the airfield were an unnatural Arcadian white. 

Four months, Bucky. Four fucking months. 

In Washington, Steve rarely took the subway. He loved his bike that was not SHIELD issue; in fact, the agents had implored him to accept their offer of a chauffeured car. Steve had politely declined. It was one thing to work for SHIELD, quite another to sit in the back of an armored car and be driven through the city, as if he were a king. Not for all the coffee in Brazil, Steve had told Fury, who had shot him a _look_ from his one eye – half annoyed, half amused. Steve got that look a lot from Fury. Perhaps once he'd moved to New York, it would be different and he'd use the subway more. Perhaps he'd store the bike in a garage someplace, at least for the winter. Taking the subway had been a treat back when he and Bucky used up their saved nickels to ride into Manhattan, to Central Park, or out to Coney Island on a Sunday. 

He came up from the underground metro to a large park; it spread out open and green from Parc Bazilescu station. Steve had no idea why Bucky had chosen this place for his new home. Bucky's family was from Iowa. Steve had been the son of Irish immigrants, but Bucky was born and bred American. He was fucking named after an American president. Why then Bucharest, why Romania even? 

The street name Natasha had sent him sounded beautiful, _Crinului_ , Strada Crinului. There were high trees casting soft shadows onto the street. Steve hadn't allowed himself to trust Natasha's intel, but looking across the street towards the large apartment building, he knew he was on the right track. It felt odd to be here without Sam, after they had been together for weeks and months, in cars, airplanes, a few times even on a Quinjet. They had been searching for Bucky all over, Maryland, Virginia, New York. When Sam had suggested the Soldier had returned to Europe, Steve had not wanted to believe that Bucky would go back there.

But this felt more right than any of the other places they had gone to, more right even than Brooklyn which was nothing like the Brooklyn Steve and Bucky had known. Seventh floor, Natasha's message said. So that's where Bucky was living these days. Steve could see it clearly in his mind: a small apartment at the very top, with windows leading out onto a flat roof. Easy to defend, easy to escape from. And Bucky had always loved heights; there was a reason he made Steve ride the Cyclone all those years ago, and it wasn't just to see Steve puke his guts out afterwards. 

Night was falling, and the sky was a dark blue. Was Bucky turning in early these days? Was he staying up late, lying on whatever bed he had made for himself, trying to fall asleep but couldn't? Hydra had experimented with sleep deprivation on the Winter Soldier. Steve had clung to the stark statistical numbers in the file to not imagine what it would do to a body, to a mind, on day 5. On day 7. On day 12. On day –

Steve shook his head to get rid of those thoughts. Part of him wished he had never asked Natasha for that file. 

It wasn't a movement, more like an apparition. He was coming out of nowhere, just like the ghost the intelligence community made him out to be. But it was _Bucky_ , a solid presence, a man walking home after a day's work.

A chuckle rose in Steve's throat as he hurried to hide behind a large tree. Bucky was wearing a baseball cap just like he did. Steve had picked his up in Washington the day he was released from the hospital. His cap had a blue tinge to it but Bucky's was all black – just like the gear he had worn as the Winter Soldier. His shirt, though, was red underneath his leather jacket (brown, not black). He had filled out a bit, though he still walked purposefully like a soldier. Ex-military, Steve would have guessed. WIA, judging by a certain stiffness in the left arm. Afghanistan, Steve would have thought. Scruffy beard, civilian clothes, long hair tucked underneath the cap – for the world Bucky looked like a soldier who had come home from war. The gloves on both hands on a summer evening were the only hint that something was not quite as it seemed. 

Bucky did not even wear a real beard. The three-day stubble he was sporting was laziness. And Bucky being lazy about his beard made Steve grin. Bucky was safe, healthy. Out of Pierce's hands. This Sam could never understand. Steve did not want to bring Bucky in. He did not want some big reunion. Bucky had always made his own choices, and he'd chosen Europe, Bucharest, an apartment in the seventh floor of an ugly gray building. Steve was pissed about it, was fucking furious that Bucky had not come to _him_. But he'd always respect the choices Bucky made for himself. 

It was almost dark when Bucky entered the building. Steve was going to wait for another five minutes. He was going to give Bucky some time before he followed him up the stairs and knocked on his door. Steve leaned against the tree; it was still warm from the day and smelled mossy, alive. He put his hand on the bark, keeping his eyes on the door where Bucky had vanished. The entrance was low, set back into the building. The double door was made of glass panels, nothing special about it. Steve must have seen hundreds just like it. He was waiting for the door to slowly close and snap shut. And, well, he hadn't thought about it but there surely must be ways to enter the building without alarming Bucky that he was here and coming up.

The door did not close. It was stuck, leaving a gap, four inches wide at least. Steve looked up the building, to see if Bucky had already turned on the lights. But the windows of the uppermost apartment were dark, gray squares in the lighter gray of the cement wall. 

The door was still ajar. 

And then Steve saw him, a shadow behind the glass. Waiting. Holding the door open, for him. He should have known, should have known of course that Bucky would not be fooled by a tree. Steve stepped out into the street, he was already crossing to the other side, where Bucky was standing, where he was waiting for him with a smile on his face.

***

Natasha gulped down water straight from the bathroom tap of the InterContinental. There was not a hint of rusted pipe, only fluorine. She was in her underwear still, damp from a night of sweating out the alcohol she had consumed last night. Only when she had drunk so much she could feel it in her bladder did she notice the green light on her phone that said messages had arrived. One from Steve, predictably, directly from the airport. Natasha couldn't help but smile at the speed with which Captain America had run to see the Winter Soldier. She could also guess now who the other two messages were from.

One from Mihai, ex-Securitate, the guy who was her eyes on Barnes when she could not watch him herself. Mihai was dependable and discreet, and Natasha could not afford to judge a person's past, not with her own history with the KGB. _Uncle arrived_ , the message said, in the old code they still used, out of habit more than practicality. _Entered building at Lily Street, left six hours and twenty minutes later. Brother_ , that was Barnes, _seems asleep, no sign of altercation._

The second message was from Daria, a friend of hers working for the airport police. Even in her mind, Natasha used the word _friend_ in the loosest of senses. Daria possibly saw more in their relationship than there was. _Natalia, dear_ , the message read. _Your colleague is on the first flight back to Washington. Next time you have to tell me what's so important about him. Gay boy? Smiley face, heart, heart. D._

Daria would see her again, but would Steve come back to see more of Barnes? Natasha did not know Steve well enough to always assess him accurately. But with Barnes, _Bucky_ , she was pretty certain Steve would show up again in Romania. A weekend holiday at the Adriatic coast, perhaps, flying into Bucharest? It was a shitty cover but Steve, as much as she knew of the man, could not care less about good cover stories. He should, probably, be more careful with this mission. There was a Red Notice out for the Winter Soldier, after all. Natasha made a mental note to remind Steve of it.

She reached for her phone, entered Stark's secure code, and typed out a message to Daria. _Will be back more often to Bucharest in the future. CU smiley face, N._  


**Author's Note:**

> This is the cleaned-up and extended version of my entry for [](https://firewhiskeyfic.dreamwidth.org/profile)[](https://firewhiskeyfic.dreamwidth.org/)**firewhiskeyfic** August 2018. Seabreeze was my poison of choice. Vodka (obviously, because Natasha's been drinking it), grapefruit and cranberry juice.
> 
> Thanks to [](https://chantefable.dreamwidth.org/profile)[](https://chantefable.dreamwidth.org/)**chantefable** for beta-reading and for caring so much about the tangled etymology of the word wodka.


End file.
